


A Metaphor For Cupid

by enleathe



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-10-02 20:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10226357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enleathe/pseuds/enleathe
Summary: “For FUCK’s sake!” Patrick howled, annoyed. “Fine! I’ll play fucking laser tag. Because we’re 13.”*******Based on a prompt found about your OTP going to play laser tag. One pushed the other in the corner, kisses them, shoots them, then walks away.This is only my 2nd fanfic and my first EVER attempt at any smut, so please be gentle, dear readers.





	

”Come ON, Patrick!” Pete begged. 

It was a rare off day on tour. Extremely rare. Like, struck-by-lightning rare. Which, for the record, Patrick would almost prefer to what Pete was suggesting. He rolled his eyes at his raven-haired friend. “No.”

Pete, who had been standing over the ginger-blond nanoseconds ago, slammed his (rather stout) body down beside his friend on the couch, wrapping his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and one of his legs around his waist. Pete knew how much his tactile/neediness annoyed him; in fact, it was probably one of this least favorite things. “Fine. Then I will spend my day pretending to be a clingy monkey.” 

Patrick wiggled, though he knew it was futile. Pete’s grip was a vice even before he gained the muscle mass. Just to make things worse, Pete put his mouth on Patrick’s neck and began to blow raspberries. 

“For FUCK’s sake!” Patrick howled, annoyed. “Fine! I’ll play fucking laser tag. Because we’re 13.”

Octo-Pete released his death grip and jumped up, pumping his fist in victory. “Yesss! You, Stump, are going down!

*****

“You realize how outmanned you are, right?” Andy teased to the group, quirking his mouth into a half-smile. Pete had used his charms to get all of his bandmates to the closest family fun mega-arcade place. Andy was the easiest, being an avid lover of games and competition. Joe, however, was even harder to convince. He had settled on an all-day Simpson’s marathon and was, quite literally, dragged from his bus. 

“WENTZ! PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN!” He had screamed, swatting at Pete’s head as the latter carried him bridal style across the parking lot to the van where the other two were waiting. “I AM NOT YOUR FUCKING HOMO EMO BRIDE SO PUT ME DOWN!” Pete just threw his head back, laughing his braying laugh as he started skipping, bouncing his guitarist (and his remaining curls) the rest of the way. 

Now, the foursome sat in an offensively-orange booth, sharing french fries and waiting for their turn to play. 

Joe scoffed at Andy’s hyper masculine comment. “Pfft. Your ability to pull your chin over a bar one hundred times in ten seconds will not help you with aiming and shooting a laser.” He stuffed a handful of greasy food into his mouth. 

Pete wiped his hands on his shirt, the Save Rock and Roll tour shirt he had been sporting since last night. “Oh, I disagree, Trohman,” he retorted. “We have stealth and athleticism. You and Trick have nerdiness.” 

Patrick glared at Pete. He didn’t even want to be there, and now he was being insulted? “What the fuck does that even mean, Pete?” he said, irritated. Pete smirked.

“I mean, sure, you and Joe maybe could figure out some sort of strategy. But, by the time you’ve done that, Andy and I will already have backed you into a corner and killed you.”

“Twenty times,” Andy chimed in, munching. Joe was having none of his shit.

“You and your stupid triceps are going down, Shades!” he yelled, throwing a fry at Andy’s forehead for emphasis. 

Patrick’s mood was quickly increasing in grumpiness. This not only was turning out to be one of the worst days off he had had, but it was also turning into a day of interband competition, which meant someone (or a couple of someones) would end up pissed off. Maybe for a few days. 

Probably him. 

Fucking Pete. 

“Attention, guests. Anyone with a blue laser tag ticket, please come to the arena!” boomed over the loudspeaker. 

“FUCK YEAH!” Pete whooped, jumping up from the booth. Andy put his shades in his pocket, which meant business. Joe ran a nervous (but slightly agitated) hand through his hair. Patrick hung his head, standing slowly. 

He couldn’t help but feel like a death row inmate walking from his cell for the last time. 

*********

“So, do we actually have a strategy?” Patrick whispered to Joe. 

Joe was looking at the other people who had joined their team- five kids who were approximately ages 5-8. “Dude, right now I’m trying not to feel like a fucking pedophile,” he whispered back. 

Patrick rolled his eyes. They were fucked. 

The door opened. In ran the kids, screaming with delight. Joe and Patrick exchanged glances. 

“See you on the other side,” Joe said, lifting his gun in salute. Then, he was gone into the darkness. 

Patrick sighed. 

Fucking Pete.

He walked into the arena. The only light came from the purple fluorescence of the black lights that were strategically placed throughout. He looked down at his hand, expecting to see it glowing (he was the whitest person he knew). Thankfully, he was hidden. His blue vest, however, was not. 

The laughter of kids was coming towards him. Reality hit him- he had to hide before the 2 big kids found him and made him suffer.

He took off at a jog, finding a ramp. As he made his way up, veering to the left, he ran smack into another not-kid. It was hard enough to make him lose his grip on his gun and jostle his fedora slightly. 

A few seconds of confusion later, he looked before him to see a red vest. Fuck.

His eyes had finally adjusted to the light. A bearded face stared back at him. 

He put his hand up by his shoulders in defeat. “Just go ahead and have your way with me.”

Andy giggled. Then, he lowered his gun. “Eh, not right now.”

Patrick was stunned, lowering his own hands. 

“Why?”

“Joe’s who I want to make suffer. For now.”

Then, just like that, he was gone. Had he not spoken with the bearded wonder, Patrick would have sworn he imagined it. 

Okay, he thought, I have to get the fuck away from those two. 

He made his way to the top of the ramp and hid behind a wall. Patrick looked at his fortress. It was fairly sizable, connected to another one (making an “L” shape, so someone coming up the other side of the ramp wouldn’t be able to see him. Pretty safe, he thought to himself. 

Patrick had just breathed out a sigh of relief when he felt cold plastic rest against his temple. 

“Tsk tsk, Stump,” came a deep voice. 

Fucking Pete. 

Patrick turned, coming face-to-face with the laser gun. But, just past that, he could see the red vest and large, white-toothed smile of his new arch nemesis (and, soon-to-be-former bass player of his band, once he killed him after this fucking awful experience). 

Pete moved the gun to the center of the vest, finger on the trigger, and pressed it against Patrick’s chest. Immediately, Patrick moved backward, trying to distance himself from Pete. 

“See, I knew you would try and hide,” Pete started, speaking so low it was hard to hear him over the thrumming dub step that filled the arena. “You’re so predictable.” 

Patrick wasn’t sure if he should be pissed or terrified. But Pete kept advancing, which made him keep stepping back. 

Or, at least, he was. Until he hit the other wall. 

It was definitely fear that was taking over Patrick. 

Pete’s smile widened, his gun coming to rest on his victim’s vest. He leaned in, mouth right next to Patrick’s ear. “Mm. I have you cornered, Trick.” The wispy breath tickle/tingled as it caressed over his lobe. 

Patrick was in a dichotomous dilemma- he was being pressed up against a wall with a fake gun, which made him nervous and uncomfortable. However, Pete’s body had just been added on top of his, pushing him harder into the wall, giving him the craziest pain-pleasure-stop-go feeling he’s ever had. His breathing was definitely getting away from him, and, being an asthmatic, that wasn’t exactly sexy or safe. 

But, then, Pete’s lips, wet and barely parted, traced across his jaw. And, well, who really gave a shit about breathing? 

Patrick came face-to-face with the beautiful bastard that had, quite literally, put him in this position. Pete stared at him, a smug softness on his face. It’s the same look he had whenever he used to come up behind Patrick and rut against him during shows before the hiatus. Or whenever he would do crazy shit like Piss Roulette. 

Patrick realized he was becoming uncomfortable for a totally different reason. 

“Trick,” Pete whispered, still staring. “I don’t want you to become just another victim of mine.” 

Patrick’s eyebrows raised. What was this riddle? And in the middle of fucking laser tag?

He didn’t have time to think about it. Because, right then and there, as kids stomped on the other side of the wall, with flashing vests and black lights, Pete smashed his lips against Patrick’s.

To his surprise, Patrick’s body responded immediately: hands grabbing Pete’s shoulders (his gun had long been forgotten), lips moving in sync with, tongues massaging one another as though they needed the other for survival. 

And then, Pete slipped from his grip, his lips. Patrick, whose eyes had closed without his knowledge, looked to see Pete, thoroughly debauched and with a smile full of sin. Pete, however, was looking down. 

At his gun. Which was still on Patrick’s vest.

Within milliseconds, the trigger was pulled, the computerized bang resounded, and blue lights were flashing from Patrick’s torso. He looked down at his currently “dead” self, shocked, then back at Pete. 

He winked at him. Then, he ran off. 

Patrick, who, once again, was torn between being pissed off and terrified. 

 

*************

“Okay, I’m just saying, if my gun hadn’t of jammed,” Joe explained as they walked towards the buses, “then you two fuckers wouldn’t have had the self-proclaimed ‘annihilation’ that you did.” Andy and Pete high-fived. “And, besides, I had PATRICK.”

Andy punched Joe in the shoulder. “Dude. You had, like, ten preschoolers. That’s the same as Patrick.” Joe punched him back. 

“Say that shit about my vocalist to my face, asshole!”

“I just did.”

The two got into a pretend scuffle, leading to a promise of an arm-wrestling match to settle the score on Andy’s bus. 

Patrick, however, was lagging behind, taking in the events of the day. All he wanted was to get onto his bus, get to his bunk, and either forget this ever happened or jerk off for the rest of the night.

Pete, however, was having none of that. As Patrick got closer to boarding his bus, Pete came bounding up behind him, jumping on his back. “WEEEEE ARE THE CHAAAAMPIOONS!” he sang. Or, at least, attempted to. Patrick tried to shake him off. 

“Get the fuck off of me, Pete!” he screamed, throwing punches behind his head, desperate for anything to land. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Pete cooed. “I beat you. You owe me a piggy back ride onto the bus.” 

Patrick sighed. “This is my bus, Pete.” 

Pete leaned in, mouth to his ear, just like before. “I know.”

All of the same feelings from before came rushing back- the fear, the lust, the anger, the desire. With a rage like he’d never had before, he pried Pete’s legs off from around his torso, causing the taller man to fall to the pavement. Being freed, Patrick ran onto his bus, to his bunk, and took refuge in the darkness. 

What the actual fuck is going on? 

Okay. So, Pete is being clingy. This is nothing new, Patrick thought. And, yeah, my semi-sexualized feelings are no surprise, but I thought I was over that. Like, teenage hormones and shit. 

He put his hands over his face, trying to still his racing mind. 

“Oh, Trick!” Pete called out in a sing-song voice. Patrick’s hands jerked from his face. Why was that fucker on his bus? Why was he not leaving him alone. This was harassment. Forget a hiatus; they were going to have to break up because of the restraining order that Patrick was going to have to put into play. 

He could hear Pete walking slowly down the aisle of the the bunks. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”

Right in front of his curtain, twin shadows stopped. Patrick stayed frozen, refusing to even breathe. Maybe, if he thinks I’m asleep, he will go away. 

Right. This from the guy who would crawl into Patrick’s bunk at all hours of the night. 

The curtain whipped open, revealing a (still) smiling Pete. “There you are, Stump.” He began to climb into the bunk, causing Patrick to be pushed against the wall. 

It was just like back at the arena. 

Once Pete was fully in, he flicked the curtain closed and turned his gaze back to his favorite vocalist. “Oh, Patrick,” he murmured, “why do you think you can hide from me?” 

Pete, who was laying on his right side, sprawled his left hand out onto Patrick’s chest. What was he going to do, Patrick thought?

“Trick, did you not hear me this afternoon?” he asked. His hand began a slow descent, beginning to crest his soft belly. All Patrick could focus on was not allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of Pete and touching and his words. 

Pete leaned closer, gently pushing his nose against Patrick’s. “I won’t hurt you.” he whispered. 

Then, it all made sense.

It was Pete’s game. His chase. What he said to Patrick in the arena. His fucked up past with lovers. He was opening himself to Patrick. Professing his love to Patrick in a very fucked-up Pete Wentz way. 

Suddenly, a primal feeling exploded from the very spot on his chest that Pete’s hand had been moments before. He refused to acknowledge it by name. 

He threw his body onto Pete, pinning him onto the (rather small) bed of the bunk. Patrick took Pete’s free hand and put it above his head as he attacked his lips, Pete answering back with just as much need. His other hand had been stopped right above Patrick’s jeans. The same jeans that, as of now, were becoming very full of arousal. And very quickly. 

Without prompting and not of his own accord, Patrick ground himself into Pete. He was met with Pete’s full cock through his own jeans and a delicious sigh into his mouth. 

Patrick broke the kisses, leaning his weight onto his elbows and knees. “Pete, what- where-”

Pete removed his hand that had been trapped between them and covered his mouth instead. “Shut up, Trick,” he said, smiling through the ragged breaths. “You and I- how could you not know this?” 

It was ludicrous. And yet, Patrick knew. Had always known. How the fuck had a game of laser tag brought him the one thing he’d always denied himself? 

Patrick felt his hat be removed and watched as Pete threw it out of the curtain. “C’mon, Patrick.” 

That’s when he fucking broke. 

It was awkward and beautiful, a painting of porcelain and mocha. Sighs and screams. 

When clothes were no longer the barrier between the two, they simply stared, taking in the beauty of one another. “Patrick- fucking, you-” Pete choked out before kissing him softly. 

Patrick had never felt more from any being than at that moment. 

When Patrick knelt between Pete’s legs, he saw the muscles visibly tense up. He began to kiss up each thigh, ignoring the straining, leaking cock that he so wanted to pleasure. He had to let Pete know he was there. He was there to love him above all else. 

When he felt Pete relax, be sank as far down as he could with his mouth. 

“Thank you,” Pete huffed out, petting Patrick’s head as he continued to suck him off. It was the most intimate either had ever been with another person. 

When Pete came, Patrick refused to move, taking all of him in. 

“C’mere,” Pete said through ragged breaths. “Wanna touch you.” 

Patrick didn’t have to be told twice.

They lay, side-by-side, as Pete wrapped his hand around Patrick. “Trick. You’ve no idea. You’re my prize. Only thing I’ve wanted.” Pete breathed onto Patrick’s neck as he got him closer to the edge. 

“Please. Don’t stop,” Patrick managed to get out. The touching. The talking. Everything. He never wanted this to end. This perfection. This madness. 

“You and me, Trick,” Pete said. “Fuck. I’m going to take such good care of you.” As Patrick came, Pete craned his neck and kissed him, drinking in the whimpers rolling off of his lips. 

Pete used his shirt (which he had previously used to clean his greasy hands that day) to wipe himself and Patrick before the two fell into an exhausted sleep, Pete’s arms encircling Patrick’s fragile frame.

*********

Patrick woke to the feeling of something in his hair. As he reached back, he felt fingers. Fingers which grabbed his. And intertwined with his. 

Everything came flooding back. 

Laser tag. Kissing Pete. Piggy back rides. Proclamations of love. Fucking. 

Shit. 

Hands still locked, Patrick turned to look at his tattooed (and currently naked) best friend laying beside him. “Morning, snoring beauty.” 

Patrick sneered. “You have room to talk.” Pete raised his shoulders, accepting guilt. “So, Pete, what-”

“Look, Trick. I know the whole laser tag thing was, like, a really fucked up Cupid metaphor,” Pete interrupted. He was looking down at their clasping fingers, rubbing across them with his thumb. “And, I’ll never, like, hold you against your will. I mean, you’d think if Stockholm Syndrome was a thing, it would have happened when we were in that shitty van.” 

Patrick smiled. 

“But,” Pete continued, still averting his eyes, “everything I said, everything I did- I meant it. Fucking everything. Well, and the fucking. Not that we’ve actually fucked. But, you know. Yeah.”

Pete looked up, staring at Patrick. Hopeful.

“You won’t be one of my victims.” Pete’s words from earlier that day rang in Patrick’s head.

“I’ll protect you,” Patrick said.

Pete grinned before leaning in to press his forehead to Patrick’s. 

“You always have.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a lesbian, so M/M smut is not really my area of expertise. But it's a challenge as a writer, so, yay?
> 
> God, I'm sorry.


End file.
